


There are no Electric Sheep under the Qun

by coveredinfeels



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Robots & Androids, Dorian is still a necromancer though, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-31
Updated: 2016-12-22
Packaged: 2018-04-29 03:49:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 12,751
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5114780
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/coveredinfeels/pseuds/coveredinfeels
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tevinter is the only place in Thedas not to make use of Qunari technology. Everywhere else? Look, the Qun might have had a reputation for war in the past, but now all they do is make very useful machines who may or may not be watching your every move and reporting back to a centralised database we're just kidding ha ha.</p><p>The Iron Bull, a Hissrad-class unit, might have some prior malfunctions on his record but he was recalibrated post-Seheron and now he's just fine, and not obsolete yet, thank you very much. A little observational work is far below his original specifications, but that's a good way of making sure there are no unfortunate <i>reoccurrences</i>.</p><p>Then Madame de Fer decides that Dorian Pavus needs someone-- or something-- to make sure he doesn't actually work himself into an early grave-- and, well, Control Central jump at the chance to have him keeping a close eye on a Tevinter mage.</p><p>This is how Dorian Pavus ends up with a very large, very battered Qunari android standing in his living room.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This arose from various twitter conversations, you all know who you are, this is all your fault.
> 
> Hattip to @_the_walrus for the title inspiration

Where is it written, that machines can't lie?

“The Iron Bull.” Dorian Pavus says, looking mildly disbelieving. “Your preferred name is _The Iron Bull_. Are you even made of iron?”

“I have a few steel components.” Dorian Pavus' apartment is easily large enough to accommodate both himself and The Iron Bull, although it is somewhat sparsely, coldly furnished. One part of his brain calculates likely acceptable bearing loads on the furniture and makes note of which chairs to avoid. “The Polymer-Matrix-Composite Bull doesn't exactly roll off the tongue, you know.”

“Oh, wonderful.” his new assignment says. “She gave me the funny android.”

“Would you prefer the unfunny android?” he asks, with grin #14 (friendly, non-threatening, non-sexual).

He doesn't exactly need to ask about Dorian Pavus' preferences, as The Iron Bull has full network access and knows quite a lot about him already. More, he presumes, than Dorian Pavus knows about The Iron Bull.

It was Madame de Fer who picked him for this assignment, although of course secondary functions have been imposed on him by the Qun when the new arrangement was formally registered.

  
Primary function: to ensure wellbeing of Dorian Pavus.  
Report level 3 (daily movements, all communications)  
Additional flag, secondary function, priority 3: to report immediately on any interaction of Dorian Pavus with residents or citizens of Tevinter.  
Additional flag, secondary function, priority

_listen, imekari. listen closely_ :

»error» 

Dorian Pavus lays a hand on one of his arms, expression curious. “I've never really seen one of you up close.” he says. “There aren't any in Tevinter, you know. Enemy technology, and all that.”

Primary function does not cover informing Dorian Pavus when he is wrong, especially when it involves S-classified facts. The Iron Bull is obvious, loud, blatant in his being. A cover for those who are not. “If you are wondering if my capabilities live up to the contents of _Sex Machine In Antiva_ , the answer is yes.” This is the most-watched pornographic video in Dorian Pavus' collection.

“You--” His assignment turns a pretty colour, eyes wide.

“I am fully functional and assigned to look after your needs.” The Iron Bull points out. “In order to assist in my primary function, you allowed me access to your home network, which includes viewing frequency--”

“Stop!” Dorian Pavus waves his hands in front of his face, hastily. “Please stop talking. Also, _don't look at my porn_.”

“Privacy settings altered.” Not like his private interests are the sort of information the Qun's really after. Also, he's pretty when he's flustered. The Iron Bull's neural network contains a large amount of material regarding human aesthetics. The ability to express preferences and opinions on beauty is not out of diagnostic scope.

All the same, some impulse causes him to erase that thought from the report logs shortly after it occurs. It is not relevant to his assigned functions.

* * *

He was designed as guardian, bodyguard, soldier.

He spends most of the first month of his new assignment making sure Dorian Pavus eats and sleeps. They are meant to be dangerous, mages. Magic is illogical, beyond his capabilities, and when it involves fire or lightning in particular, potentially dangerous to his functioning.

It is difficult to remember this when his assignment is sleeping in a chair, open books on the table before him, and also drooling a little. His size and strength does not mean he lacks precision: The Iron Bull is able to transfer Dorian Pavus from his chair to his bed, change him into pyjamas (silk; cost to function ratio obscene but he rejects all suggestions for alternatives), and tuck him in, all without waking him.

Dorian Pavus shifts, and breathes a name. “Rilienus.”

Search of databanks: this is not a person Dorian Pavus is in contact with, currently or within the scope of historical communications available to The Iron Bull. Widen search: relatives, schoolmates, colleagues of a similar age.

There is one hit with far greater probability than the rest, even with his limited access to Tevinter systems. Swift chronological sort of available data. Met at seventeen, classmates, Rilienus expelled, 'moral failings', complaint of one Halward Pavus. Military school. Seheron. Deceased.

That would explain the lack of current contact. Seheron. Her tears on his cheek. Ashkaari's broken body. 

»error» data encrypted. »error» Primary function:

_live, my son_.

»error» Primary function: ensure wellbeing of assignment (Dorian Pavus). Secondary function: »error»

How young he looks when he is sleeping, and not complaining about everything. How soft and vulnerable beneath the words he wears like spines to stop anyone getting close enough to see it.

He spends the rest of the night running self-diagnostics, but there is nothing wrong. He should report, perhaps, the possible malfunction.

Primary function: ensure wellbeing of Dorian Pavus. He cannot do that if he is recalled for maintenance.

When Dorian wakes, he complains about The Iron Bull undressing him in his sleep.

“Only to get you into your pyjamas. Take it from me, you have nothing to be ashamed about.” The Iron Bull tells him. “If it would help even things up, I could show you mine.”

Dorian makes a not very convincing noise of disgust. “Not interested. Next time, just wake me up.”

“You know there are seventeen separate physical symptoms of arousal detectable by my sensors, right?”

He flushes. “Androids aren't supposed to lie, you know.”

“Not really lying. Teasing.” Besides, heartbeat and the way his pupils dilate tell the story more than enough. He wouldn't need seventeen different ways to spot that Dorian's interested. “Also, still fully functional over here, if you'd like a demonstration.”

Dorian suddenly becomes very interested in the painting on the wall behind The Iron Bull's shoulder and a little to the right. “You don't mean that.”

“The offer's genuine.” It is a function Bull has served a number of times since being sent beyond the boundaries of home, one he enjoys. To please is pleasing to him - a neural feedback loop, a quirk he's picked up somewhere along the way, perhaps somewhere in the foggy mists of things that happened before his recalibration.

Dorian bites his lip, looks up at him. “Androids don't fall in love.” he says, walks stiffly past him to the kitchen, and doesn't speak to him-- even when struggling to remember how his coffee machine works-- for the rest of the morning.

* * *

Bull's not dumb enough to repeat the offer, so by lunchtime Dorian has apparently forgiven him. This might be a bit to do with the fact that he's so far into whatever deeply creepy necromancy research he's current doing that he barely registers the fact that it's Bull who just brought him his lunch, or that it's Bull who brings him tea all through the afternoon.

It's probably funny. Eight feet of military-grade equipment and he's making tea. Well, that and trying to construct a report on Dorian's research without actually letting himself think about what that sort of thing entails.

There was a necromancer in Seheron, put spirits into broken android bodies, the closest Tevinter has come to being able to replicate the Qun's technology. He cut through _dozens_ of his fellows to get to the guy. Ashkaari had--

»error» attempt to access encrypted data  
»warning» unit operating outside parameters. running diagnost--  
»error» diagnostic check cancelled

“Enough.” Dorian says, throwing one of his books down with a sigh. “I don't suppose you could suggest a bar where they don't know me?”

Bull doesn't need to think more than a moment. “I can suggest a bar where they don't know _anybody_ like you. Although you might want to wear something a little more relaxed.”

He doesn't actually require clothing, himself, although he has learnt the social norms, the minimum he can get away with in any situation. He is battered and scarred – they would fix him, he supposes, if the purpose was to put him back into a war.

This is a different sort of battle.

When they sent him south to take up an observation role, it suited to appear to be an old junker, half-obsolete, the sort who was assigned and reassigned to various jobs, obvious and therefore, also invisible.

It was supposed to be an observation role, at least, but he was not designed to just stand by and _watch_.

Rocky was first, actually. Dalish, and Skinner shortly afterwards. Stitches, after convincing Skinner to actually get _stitches_ for that wound. More and more, a motley group, and he told himself it was building a network, informants, information, cover, so many reasons, so many excuses.

The designations he gave them in the reports were never corrected, though, so doesn't that mean the reasoning was right?

Krem was one of the last he collected, but he's also the first to greet him when Bull ushers Dorian through the doors of the Chargers Bar and Grill. “Where have you been, you heap of junk?”

“Nice to see you too.” Bull feels himself grin, without consciously calculating how to. “New assignment. He needs a drink.”

Krem looks Dorian over, and then clearly decides not to ask. “Ferelden beer okay?”

“Sounds ghastly.” Dorian replies, but smiles through it. “I'll have two.”

Krem passes the second to Bull instead, and when Dorian raises an eyebrow he tells the story about the android whose owner had it modded so it could actually get drunk, rather than give him the technical specs on his own metabolism.

It's a good story, and it does the job of distracting Dorian from who and what he is, at least for a little while.

Long enough for Dorian to get drunk, somehow end up in a karaoke battle with Sera, and have a mildly heated argument with Krem about Tevinter politics that Bull decides isn't really worth making a record of as they're both sloppy drunk and the argument is mostly conducted in outraged hand gestures.

He pretty much has to carry Dorian home. Thankfully Dorian still has sufficient motor skills left to get himself out of his jeans all by himself, because really those things are painted on and Bull's pretty sure helping him change for bed would involve crossing some lines Dorian's laid down.

“Well,” he says, smoothing his silk pyjamas down and accepting the glass of water Bull's brought him so he doesn't wake up too regretful in the morning. “That was interesting. I didn't realise androids could-- that you could-- that you _have_ , I mean, have so many friends.”

An interesting categorisation. Bull finds he can't argue with it. “I'm a singular guy.”

Dorian laughs. “That you are.” He lays a hand on Bull's arm, traces a scar up on one broad shoulder. “You make it very hard to remember you're not real, you know.”

That sounds like something slanting towards a confession. “You should go to bed.” Bull says, before anything else can spill from Dorian's lips. “You need to rest.”

He tries to erase that conversation three times, but it seems to have lodged itself in his brain. He locks it down instead, makes sure at least it won't end up in any of the automatic reports. It's not like it's relevant.

He could report it anyway, and let someone else decide that, but then what is the point of something like him?

* * *

He does not sleep, precisely; he does shift into a power conservation mode while Dorian sleeps, only maintaining watch on perimeter sensors in case of intruders and on communications because that is his job.

So when contact is initiated at 4:12am from Felix Alexius, a Tevinter citizen who appears to be currently located in Redcliffe, despite no border crossing entries to that effect on the public databases, he is well prepared before Dorian wakes up to see the message.

Monitoring this matter has been given priority level two, high alert. He does not know why. It is not his place to know. It is his place to make coffee and oatmeal, and pretend he has not read the message already when he brings them in to Dorian's bedroom to see him frowning down at his phone.

It is his job to lie.

It is not his job to feel so uneasy about it.


	2. Chapter 2

“You must be _joking_.” Dorian says, staring at Vivienne, who, granted, does not look like she's joking. Ever, really.

“When one receives a gift, darling, it is usual to say _thank you_.” she says, instead, lounging behind her desk very much like a queen upon her throne. “I know you struggle to wrap your mind around our quaint little southern customs, but do try.”

“Potentially murderous robots do not count as _gifts_.” Dorian points out.

“I am doing this for you, Dorian.” Vivienne says, leaning forward. Almost earnest, if he'd believe that on her. “And your inability to function without people to pick up after you, and handle difficult technology like refrigerators and can-openers that Tevinter simply didn't prepare you for.”

“You are _hilarious_.” Dorian says, flailing for an idea that will get Vivienne to retract her unwanted 'generosity'. “You realise what they use those for, on Seheron?”

“Similar things to which Tevinter uses mages, but you don't see me insisting you're swept for magical devices at the door.” Vivienne says coolly. “He's ex-military hardware, yes, most droids are, but the market is very well regulated. _Here_ we use them for heavy lifting, household work, or just to help one relax.”

Vivienne was the last person he'd imagine to admit to something like _that_. “What?”

“Massage, darling.” Vivienne tells him, evenly, just the tiniest hint of a smile. “They give wonderful massages. Whatever did you think I meant?”

And since there's nothing more to say without admitting to knowing far too much about _other uses_ for said machines, he finds himself backing out of Vivienne's office, without getting her to even consider taking back her 'gift'.

* * *

He regrets not standing up against Vivienne more the moment he sees the android standing-- slouching, almost, as much as a giant machine with horns can-- outside his front door. _Ex-military hardware_ , indeed. What had they done, put him on wheels and used him as a tank?

The regret just keeps on coming, after he gives up and lets it-- _him_ , Dorian supposes-- into his house. The android has an identity number and a 'preferred designation' which sounds like it ought to be stuck on a professional wrestler, or possibly a dildo-- oh Maker, he really can't think things like that right now.

He is deeply regretting, for instance, the number of films he's watched which have the basic plotline of a well-built android 'servicing' its new master into happy exhaustion (on the part of the human, not the android, as they don't get exhausted, that's the entire point). And that's _before_ he finds out The Iron Bull has just tapped into his home network to check out his viewing preferences.

Please don't let him get any ideas. If they've designed him _proportionally_ , Dorian's not sure he'd survive.

One very deep part of his brain, chooses this moment to pipe up with _O, happy death_.

Tomorrow, he's definitely telling Vivienne she needs to take her gift back.

* * *

Somehow, he never gets around to it.

The thing is, Vivienne was right, damn her. Oh, he knows her ulterior motives for giving him an android to 'help out around the house' that just happens to be built like a brick shithouse, the month after his father's little staged drama at Redcliffe, but her little jokes about why she really did it are grounded in embarrassing truth.

All that day to day stuff he grew up with other people to do for him-- it's not that easy to figure it all out. It does nothing but frustrate him, that he can't seem to even manage these supposedly basic things. _Laundry_ , for example, surely should not be this difficult to deal with.

It should also probably not be this _easy_ to once more get used to somebody doing it all for him, when that somebody is a frighteningly large Qunari android with a quite bizarre sense of humour that somebody perhaps programmed in as a joke, surely no other way that it could have developed, and whose fault it is that Dorian now has actual cooking equipment in his kitchen and a large percentage of it is florescent pink.

It should probably not be that easy to talk to him, complain at him, laugh-- like friends, like he's a person.

When he was a child, Bull would have been a creature from literal nightmares. A little less of a child, and he would have been a creature from awkward sexual fantasies. Now, he's joking about how if one of the neighbours asks to borrow a can-opener, Dorian can just offer his services, and hijacking the tv to switch it to one of the kiddy shows he likes to sing along to.

Tevinter depictions of androids have them as either a menace or a punchline; the threat in the dark or the botwives of Orlais. Here he can (and does) read serious discussions about the ethics and psychology behind it all, could an android ever become truly sentient, extended arguments over whether a surgical 'bot should be allowed to work unsupervised and who is responsible for any errors it makes, or is cruelty towards an android indicative of sociopathy in the same way that cruelty towards an animal would be, will technology supersede the use of magic-- all very academic and scholarly and all that.

The jokes about the sort of people who'd have sex with an android, though, or even worse, imagine themselves having a _relationship_ with one, remain roughly the same on either side of the border. Dorian reads, guiltily and quite carefully, an article outlining all the ways in which androids are programmed to establish a mimicry of intimacy, and reminds himself of it as often as possible.

If Bull was less like a person, maybe it wouldn't seem so bad. But there he is, having drinks with friends, liking the most terrible clothes, startling a bit when Dorian thoughtlessly uses magic too close to him, humming the theme to The Littlest Dragon.

Rilienus, Dorian knows, would have said yes. Bull would, too. He wouldn't say no. He can't, and that's why Dorian can't ever ask.

* * *

He wakes one morning, much like any other, to see his phone lit up, and when he checks, it's Felix breaking his long silence.

The Venatori he associates with the sort of deeply embarrassing anti-technology mage movements which are the reason he hates telling people in Ferelden where he's from. Traditionalists of the sort that leaves them wearing capes (capes!) and doing their magic with big pointy sticks with crystals stuck on the end.

Most of them are just embarrassing; a few like to dabble in the sort of 'mystical healing' that always turns out to involve blood magic of the worst sort. For Alexius to even consider associating with such people, Felix must be in a worst state than he realised.

He ought to just call the authorities, let someone in charge deal with it.

Except that might well leave Alexius under arrest for associating with banned mage movements, and he can't do that to Felix with at least attempting to talk some sense into his former mentor first.

So he looks up, when Bull comes in with coffee and the sort of wholesome breakfast he makes on mornings Dorian is likely to have a hangover, and thinks about potentially violent magic cultists and the wisdom of going it alone. “If I asked you to do something dangerous with me, would you say yes?”

Bull sets the coffee down. “The fun kind of dangerous? You know you don't have to ask, right?”

“I'm asking.” Dorian says, firmly, because yes, he does. “I'm also bribing you with a promise of a visit to the Orlesian Dragon Sanctuary, because Vivienne knows people.”

Bull grins manically; it's a little weird how many facial expressions he actually has, or perhaps that Dorian no longer finds it a little weird. This is the grin that means _dragons!_ “I'm in.”


	3. Chapter 3

Alexius, Felix... file parsing... complete. Alexius, Gereon... file parsing... complete. Primary function: ensure wellbeing of Dorian Pavus. Secondary function, priority 2: determine current status and activities of Felix Alexius, Gereon Alexius, and any associated citizens of Tevinter in Redcliffe, for immediate report via secure channel. Primary function: Are you happy, imekari? Are you well? »error»

The problem is, the files only ever tell you so much. Felix Alexius is sick and his father is worried enough about it that he's starting to think in terms of _by any means necessary_ , and what The Iron Bull learnt in Seheron is that when mages start thinking like that the only thing you can predict about the outcome is that it's going to be pretty damn shit.

So, when they head to the suspiciously abandoned location Felix suggested as a meeting spot, he's prepared to have to take immediate action.

He's really not expecting the dwarf.

“You're... not Felix.” she says, curiously. A brief scan shows him she's got a few implants, and a few hidden weapons, but that's pretty standard on a dwarf. Whatever's hiding underneath that glove of hers is another matter, however. “And you've got a Sten! Or, I guess-- is that what you are? Varric told me he knew a Sten.”

“His preferred designation is _The Iron Bull_.” Dorian says, saving Bull from having to lie about his classification. “And I'm Dorian Pavus. Who are you, and where's Felix?”

“Cadash.” the dwarf says, before she demonstrates one of the benefits of dwarven height by ducking as a flash of something magic goes over her head. “Um, and I don't think he's here yet, but, little help?”

There's five-- no, six, one trying to sneak around in the shadows at the back, at least until lightning arcs from Dorian's hand and drops him, shaking, to the floor. Bull tries not to think about what that might do to his systems, in favour of working his way through the rest before they get any smart ideas. A good crack to the skull tends to do it.

Then their reinforcements arrive. Dorian swears, sharp and low, in Tevene, something about demons and the parents of everyone in the vicinity. “Well, this has the potential to get a trifle unpleasant.”

Cadash whips off her glove. Beneath, something glows unnaturally. “Work, work, work, work, _work_!” she yells, not the conventional magical chant, but it, well... works.

It makes the air feel like magic, and like electricity, and like something else entirely, something reminiscent of Tama's workshop.

_There's a spark in you, Imekari. There's life. It's not the same, but that doesn't make it false._

It also sends their opponents clattering against the far wall like so many bowling pins, which is a plus.

This is the moment that Felix Alexius tiptoes in, peering around the room carefully. “I'm sorry, Father kept me back and then I was going to sneak up behind them and, _pow_ , only I see Cadash already sort of did the _pow_ bit-- oh, wow, Dorian, when did you get a Sten? Awesome.”

“He's _The Iron Bull_ ,” Dorian says, through clenched teeth, “And I didn't _get_ him, he turned up and won't leave, and also will somebody explain to me what in the blighted hells is going on?”

* * *

“It was an accident.” Cadash says, showing them her hand. The glow is subsiding now, and Bull can see that there is metal beneath the glow. It's definitely not any technology of the Qun.

“This is no magic I've ever heard of.” Dorian says, looking unduly fascinated by the concept of ill-controlled magic on a dwarf. Bull really wishes he'd sit back a little, as calculations suggest that even with his reflexes, pulling him back in time if Cadash's hand starts going _weird_ is not going to be easy. “What sort of accident?”

Cadash looks sort of embarrassed. “I was in this warehouse, right? For, like, business purposes. And the security guard came back early so I had to take an alternate route out, right?”

Ah. Carta. Of course. “Right.” he says, because it looks like Dorian is dying to comment on this but he wants to give Cadash the freedom to talk it out.

“So then I hear this argument and I go to check it out, and _then_ it gets a little fuzzy. There was sort of an explosion, and I woke up to this police officer yelling at me, like, I didn't set no bombs I'm an innocent victim here, and she took all my business supplies and was all grabby at my arm, what's this then, illicit enhancements, and that's when my hand started trying to kill me.”

An interaction between her dwarven nature and the magic? He can't read any excessive radiation coming off the thing, nor any of the standard signs of implant rejection. “You seem well enough to me,” Dorian says. “And quite able to use the thing, even if your techniques do seem a little unpolished. What's this got to do with Gereon Alexius?”

“Hey, I was unconscious for days!” Cadash says, looking mournful. “And they charged me with trespassing. Trespassing! And people are still after me for this damn thing.” She pouts. It's not very effective. “Alexius, too. He contacts me out of the blue, saying he can help get rid of it, but I know scams and the whole damn thing smelt wrong even before Felix did his secret message thing.” She leans forward to Dorian. “He used _actual paper_.”

“That does rather sound like him. Technology and Felix do not play well together.”

Felix, who so far has been sitting quietly, groans. “I _replaced_ your phone, Dorian, when will you let me forget about it? Anyway, father has some creep monitoring all the communication lines, it was the safest option. Contacting Dorian was risky enough.”

“I understood your father was involved with the Venatori.” Bull queries. “They don't usually get along with modern technology.” If they've got someone who does, he's going to have to be extra careful tapping into their networks. Could be a veteran of Seheron, someone who'd recognise a Qunari hack when they see one.

Felix shrugs. “I don't think Servis is a true believer in anything but himself. Ideally himself with enough money to purchase a small country, or at least an island or something.”

He leaves a query on that one running in the background; the name's not that uncommon but now is not the time to press Felix for those specific details.

“I find it hard to believe your father would even consider associate with those low-lives, even if--” Dorian doesn't finish the sentence. Even without access to Felix Alexius' medical records, which Bull admittedly does have, the pallid tone of his skin and the way he keeps his hands close to his body to hide the shake tells it all.

“He believes they have a cure.” Felix says, simply.

Several emotions chase each other across Dorian's face. Disbelief, hope, swiftly repressed, anger. “And you think they're lying.” he says.

“I think that even if they're not, their 'cure' won't be anything I'm willing to take.” Felix replies. “There are worse things than death, Dorian.”

There are things the files won't tell you. The look that Felix gives Dorian, as he makes that last statement, and the look with which Dorian answers him, tells Bull that there's something here, some secret shared which none of his considerable stash of data on Dorian Pavus tells him anything about.

Something about which he knows nothing; and yet, achingly familiar.

* * *

“Hissrad, Hissrad!”

Ashkaari is growing swiftly now, but he still has to stretch upwards to tap Hissrad on the shoulder. The audible component of his greeting is more than sufficient to indicate his presence but Ashkaari likes to touch as well.

The primary function of unit Hissrad is to ensure the wellbeing of Ashkaari, imekari of Tama who made him. The secondary function of unit Hissrad is to learn. He has learnt that his primary function requires constance vigilance.

“Hissrad, I want Vitaar! I'm old enough now. Will you help me?”

A swift and easy calculation. “No. Resistance to Vitaar toxicity is lacking in zero point fifteen percent of the Qunari population. Considering your genetic profile, that risk rises to one point three percent in your case. Your first exposure to Vitaar must be under controlled circumstances in case of adverse reaction.”

Ashkaari pouts. “But, but-- you can find out what to do if it goes wrong, right?”

First aid is part of his base programming. “Yes.”

“So as long as you can do that, it's really safer if you and I do it together. What if I get accidentally exposed? We should do it under-- what's the thing Tama always says?”

“Controlled circumstances.” Ashkaari's logic is well-founded. The risk of accidental Vitaar exposure is low but difficult to accurately calculate, given Ashkaari's abilities to confound all statistical analysis. “I accept your argument as valid.”

Ashkaari punches the air. “Yes! You're the best, Hissrad.”

Another thing about Ashkaari is that he refuses to define measurements, units, axes or categories for his estimations. In what sense on or what scale is Hissrad _the best_? He has learnt, though, to answer illogic with illogic. “You are also the best, Ashkaari.”

His charge clutches his stomach and doubles over, laughing, for no obvious reason. Once he has established this is because he is amused, and not some sort of illness, Hissrad lets him.

“What _are_ you boys up to now?”

Tama enters, wiping her hands done on her work apron. Ashkaari quickly stands up straight. “It's a _secret_.”

“Oh, is it now?” She turns sharp eyes on Hissrad. “Unit Hissrad, what was the topic of your most recent conversation with imekari Ashkaari?”

Tama is his creator and he must obey. Yet the wishes of imekari Ashkaari must be taken into consideration as part of his primary function. Imekari Ashkaari will be upset if he answers in full. The two sets of consideration pull at him, for a moment. “It is a secret, Tama.”

“This is a direct command, my override code: twenty, six, bull. Answer this question: What was the topic of your most recent conversation with imekari Ashkaari?”

It is a simple question and a direct command.

And yet.

“That is a secret, Tama.”

He disobeys, and she only smiles.

»error»


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this got weird, and sad, sorry

There's something really quite satisfying about using magic in a fight. Granted, he's just broken about five different laws and the conditions of his visa, but the adrenalin rush is definitely worth it.

Well, that's perfectly natural, nothing wrong about that. Perhaps he should be more worried about his reaction to watching The Iron Bull fight, because it's one thing to know the Qun build them strong, another to ask him to move the sofa, and quite a _third_ to see that strength turned to what he supposes is its designed purpose.

He should not think how oddly elegant the swing of a makeshift weapon, or the other uses to which that power might be put. He should definitely not think about _fully functional_.

He should think, perhaps, of the only thing he's got close to a personal reason to dislike the Qun. Remember, perhaps, Rilienus' mother on his doorstep with black at her throat, silent, there to return the condolence card probably sent by his father's secretary, the pieces of it fluttering to the ground.

The look on her face, like she wanted to spit in his but was just this side of too much of a lady to do so.

Yes, that's a sobering enough thought, even though all things considered there was far more of Dorian's fault in it than anything to do with Bull. Sobering, too, to see how thin and wan Felix has gotten while Dorian's been chasing a fresh start, and to hear of Alexius, desperate enough for miracles to believe the stories of madmen and charlatans. Which of those this particular lot are, he does not know, but better to be certain they're one or the other than to cling to false hope.

Now, if only he can convince Alexius of that.

Luckily, he does have something that will definitely get Alexius' attention, and she's currently rummaging through his kitchen. “Why are all your cooking utensils pink?”

A wonderful question, indeed, but not really the point right now. “Can we please discuss the plan?”

“I'm the bait, you're the brains, Sten's the muscles.” Cadash says, opening and closing the cupboards in sequence. “Plan sorted. Ooh, you've got that posh muesli.”

Bull, standing calmly to one side supervising Dorian's failed attempts to herd a singular dwarf, doesn't seem to mind the misnomer, but it's starting to grate. “Why do you keep calling him that?”

“Easier to remember. Military ones are all Sten, right? They have them guarding shipments sometimes.”

“I was actually designed to be a spy.” Bull says, absolutely deadpan.

That one barely deserves responding to. “His name is The Iron Bull. You get used to the attempts at humour.”

“Still think it sounds like a sex toy.” Cadash mutters, and Dorian just gives up.

“Fine. Planning over, I'm calling Alexius. But when it all goes horribly wrong, I'm going to say 'I told you so'.”

* * *

The ground is damp under his feet. “I _told_ you so.” Dorian says, although he doesn't feel particularly vindicated by it. This place smells _foul_. They seem to have been transported into the basement of the building in which they'd made contact with Alexius, and someone appears to have done some redecoration, in the style of a historical re-enactment pseudo-dungeon designed to scare small children.

It doesn't just smell bad. It _feels_ wrong, and the way light flares from his fingertips when he tries something as simple as to call a little light gives a hint as to why.

“Are we sneaking?” Cadash asks. “Because I feel like we should be sneaking, and if we are, don't do _that_.”

“Apologies.” Dorian tells her, absent-mindedly, trying to think it through. The veil feels weirdly thin here. There are areas in Tevinter where that's true; places that idiots gather, claiming they're more in tune with their magic or some such.

Here, it feels a lot more than that. Here, it feels like he'd be capable of the sort of story-book magic it's claimed once made Tevinter great, for a given definition of _great_. Fire-storms, lightning, raising the dead--

 _Time travel_.

The trinket Alexius had had in his hand right before it'd all gone horribly wrong had looked rather like one of the theoretical designs they'd come up with, Felix enjoying himself by working through the numbers to determine exactly how theoretical it all was. _You'd have to tear a hole in the veil to do it, and I don't fancy you two bringing the universe down around our ears._

“We need to find Alexius.” he says. “To work out how to undo this. If he's done what I think he's done, it's _amazing_ , but also terrifyingly dangerous and really just an all round bad idea.”

“Up, then.” Cadash says, stance shifting. Dorian is suddenly reminded that his new friend is, indeed Carta. “This feels like underground, and I don't like underground, or people presuming I like underground.” She waggles her finger at him, which is sort of worrying, as it's the glowing hand.

“Please don't point that thing at me.”

“That what you tell your android?”

Dorian sighs. “Up.”

* * *

Up, down, sideways-- it all looks the same, with that dank stench, general air of wrongness, and occasional chunk of something that Dorian thinks may be lyrium, except that he doesn't think it should come in red, or grow out of corpses. He's not an expert, since the version of the stuff he consumes comes in cans in a variety of flavours, but that definitely seems wrong.

He doesn't ask Cadash if she's seen red lyrium before, since her reaction to it makes it fairly obvious the answer is _fuck no, and get that shit away from me_. Their path is also not without resistance, in that occasionally people dressed in what Dorian supposes is Backward Cultist Couture, all metal and leather, will decide to rush them, stupidly.

The thinness of the veil, if that's what it is, makes dealing with them relatively easy. He could get used to this, how easy it is, the way lightning sparks from his fingertips at merely a thought. If this was the power of the mages of old, he can see the attraction.

Then again, there are downsides: damp, corpses, deeply creepy red crystals, the local fashion. Perhaps he should be content with what he has.

Then, unexpected, something familiar.

Someone.

Bull, behind iron bars, and when he lifts his head at their arrival it is in him, the red, in his good eye, in the seams of his body. He doesn't seem to recognise them.

“Designation.” he says, even-toned, strangely robotic. “Hissrad. Twenty-six. Zero-two. Twenty-one. Twelve. Twelve. Designation--”

“Bull.” Dorian says, which at least seems to pause the recitation. “The Iron Bull.”

A long pause. “Primary function.” Bull says, voice more him, but still a hoarse, crackling thing. “Dorian.”

“I can fix this.” Dorian says. He hopes, at least. “I can fix this, but we need to find Alexius. If we can just work out a way to get you out of here, that would be a start.”

He's about to ask Cadash if she might, no assumptions about Carta membership or anything, have some lockpicks on her person, when there's a great creak of metal and The Iron Bull, with some obvious effort, tears the door to his cell off its hinges. “Hope you want me to hit things.” he says. The words seem to take more effort than the door did.

“Probably.” Cadash interjects, before Dorian can find more appropriate words to respond with.

“You owe me dragons.” Bull adds, words still slow, and sweeps ahead to take point, like a great rusting iceberg, without waiting for a response.

* * *

Let him cut the tale short there. Let him say: the heroes won. Let him say he worked wonders, aided by his natural brilliance, and upon their return to their proper time, by the arrival of a significant amount of military personnel, apparently not very impressed by the presence of Tevinter terrorist organisations on Ferelden soil, 

Let him be _very_ thankful that Seeker Cassandra is with them, to clarify that Dorian is actually a law-abiding citizen, and that Cadash is, if not a law-abiding citizen, at least an innocent party in this particular case.

She's quite grudging about it, granted, but Cadash seems to be happy to take it.

Yes, let him leave it there. Let him leave it with The Iron Bull laughing, putting a blush on the cheeks of the poor tech who'd been assigned to confirm his designation and registration details, while Dorian recites his details to a suspicious immigration officer (ah, but he repeats himself) who will eventually admit that yes, he does have the right to be in the country.

He should not think of Felix, stranded somewhere between life and death, of Alexius, beyond false hope, somewhere on the other side of madness.

He should not think of a broad body turned to block a blow, of Bull standing between them and the enemy to give Dorian the precious few seconds to make half-remembered theories into reality, turning the utterly impossible into the merely 'can't quite believe I pulled that off'.

He should not remember Bull dying, and it should definitely not hurt this much to remember that he smiled before he turned away.

“So, drinks?” Bull says, when they're all finally free to go.

“ _Absolutely_.” Cadash responds, whole-heartedly. “Dorian's buying, right?”

He sighs. Bull pats him on the back. “Hey, remember, you owe me dragons.”


	5. Chapter 5

He likes dragons. It was not a feature he intended to develop. 

Unit Hissrad learnt to be careful, soft-soft, with living beings. Here is a cow, a dog, a child. Each has limits that you do not. Balance of kindness and protection; a bruise where he'd pulled Ashkaari to safety better than the estimated impact of doing nothing.

Ashkaari has no facility to properly analyse whether or not Unit Hissrad had used too much force in an effort to protect him, and so appears to have given it no further thought. Corrective scolding from Tama about climbing furniture over, he settles down to draw. Unit Hissrad knows the benefit to child development of allowing this activity, but he does not yet understand why it is fun.

"Hissrad, you're real super strong, right?"

His capabilities in that area are within standard limits for a unit of his class. If Ashkaari wanted to know that, though, he could examine the relevant documentation. He will take it as an opportunity to develop his natural language programming, rather than to correct Ashkaari's grammar. "I suppose so."

Ashkaari draws fierce coils with his red crayon, emerging from the mouth of a lopsidedly drawn green lizard. "If you fought a dragon, who would win?"

"Why would I fight a dragon?"

Yellow curls join the red. "It's a bad dragon and it's trying to eat people."

There are seventeen known sub-species of dragon, of which he can identify two as the most likely to ever be encountered in Par Vollen. The chance of a direct confrontation is unlikely, but at times there is encroachment on dragon sanctuaries, or natural disasters drive them from their normal habitats into conflict with settlements. These are rare but well examined events.

"I do not know." It is not that there is insufficient data. It is that the outcome lies at the very reach of his capabilities; theoretically, yes, he would 'win', but in practice? Impossible to know.　He should minimise uncertainties, minimise sources of harm, but Ashkaari offers him a hypothetical-- there is no immediate harm to be concerned of, only a curious puzzle to be solved. A moment's consideration longer. "I would like to find out."

* * *

Hot breath rushes over the top of his head. If the beast was to turn and attack, now, how long would he be able to hold out? The greatest thing that nature ever made versus the work of the greatest engineer in all Par Vollen-- what a test!

"If you should like," the heavily scarred attendant says, very carefully only addressing Vivienne rather than either of her guests, "you would be welcome to visit the hatchling area."

"Baby dragons?" he asks. "There are baby dragons?"

Dorian swiftly hides a smile, which is a shame, because he should smile more. "I suppose since we did trek all the way out here, we might as well see the baby dragons."

After some coaxing and assurance that they wouldn't hold the sanctuary responsible for any 'property damage', he even gets to hold one. Well, sort of-- more of a cuddle, as it's nearly half the size of him and tries to bite his fingers off.　"This," Dorian calls from behind the safety screen, "I really do need to get a photo of."

He pulls it out and takes a couple of snaps, as Bull laughs and poses. The baby dragon makes an adorable growling sound and claws at his thigh, but doesn't leave more than minor cosmetic damage. Vivienne appears to be offering photography advice.　"Got any good ones?"

Dorian laughs. "Oh, a couple. What a pity there's no signal out here, I'd love to show Felix. It'll have to wait until we get back to civilisation."

It's true, there's not. While emergency frequencies could undoubtedly be used to reach this far, there is an odd feeling when he's disconnected. He can manage autonomously better than most, as Tama used to deliberately disconnect him when doing some of her tests, but he doesn't like it, being off the grid. They say it's dangerous. Androids went rogue a lot in Seheron, when the network was scrambled by Tevinter or just from processing fatigue, neural network overload. They are provided with oversight and guidance for a reason. Regular contact with the Qun ensures one does not drift from standard specifications. Recalibration is provided, as required. Why, he himself has been recalibrated, once.

_blood on the sand they scream when they burn_ »error»

"Bull?"

He reaches down and carefully (soft-soft), disengages the hatchling from his leg. "We should return. You're probably wanting lunch."

"We already had lunch." Ashkaari says.

That won't do. He needs to eat regularly. "Dinner, then."

"It's three pm." Ashkaari responds. "I wouldn't say no to a civilised spot of tea, but we don't have to leave yet. Plenty of time for you enjoy being mauled by animals yet."

Ah, that's right, Ashkaari's not a boy anymore. But they can't wait here. They have to go now. The extraction team is on route, and there's nothing more he can do. " _No survivors_."

"Don't just stand there muttering in Qunlat, you big metal idiot." Dorian snaps. "Would serve you right if the damn thing did eat your foot."

He looks down. "Oh. Sorry, got lost in thought." A little more encouragement (involving a stick with a steak on the end) and the hatchling is finally persuaded to stop using him as a chew toy. To be honest, he feels a little sad about that. It's so _cute_.

“Now do you see what I mean?” Dorian is saying to Vivienne as Bull gets let back out of the hatchling area. “Honestly, take back your defective android already before he lets himself be eaten by ravenous lizards.”

“And have him abandon you, just as the nights are turning cold? I am not nearly so cruel as rumour would have me.”

“No, merely twice as vicious and three times as cunning.”

“Don't try flattery, darling, it's one of many things you have little talent for. Stick to dabbling in necromancy and self-aggrandisement.”

Dorian and Vivienne argue like a circus act Bull saw once, real knives but precisely aimed to hit nothing too vital. He's got enough self-awareness to know that if he was to compare her to a circus act out loud, Vivienne would probably see him sold for scrap.

Dorian smiles, a different smile to any Bull has seen before, as Vivienne declares he is a disgrace to mages everywhere and should be ashamed (in this case, of his choice of footwear), and it's dragons all over again.

How many different ways are there to make Dorian smile? His primary function does not require him to know.

But he would like to find out.

* * *

Vivienne has an android driver, a low-spec unit, single-function. They've achieved very good market penetration with these. When he rides with her he habitually overrides its control of the routing and central locking functions, just in case.

Although if he doesn't have a connection out here, it won't, either.

Vivienne sits in the passenger seat, and Dorian leans into Bull's side and tuts at the scratches, threatens to get out the metal polish when they get home. “If you wanted to give me a rub-down, you only had to ask.” Bull says, and watches for the tiny smile which Dorian quickly hides with loud objections as to his choice of words.

As they climb out of the valley, a connection flickers back into life. He suppresses the automatic report, which incorrectly suggests there has been some error with his functioning, and sends instead his preferred customised template, confirming that nothing of interest has occurred while he has been out of range.

When he has seen Dorian safely home, he will send a report on the dragon sanctuary. It may well be of interest.

“ _Finally_.” Dorian says, five minutes later, poking his phone triumphantly. “We return to civilisation.”

He frowns, just a moment later than Bull parses the incoming data, lifts the phone to his ear. “Mae? No, I've been out of range--”

He doesn't need to listen in to the conversation. This status update, he's already received, in far more efficient fashion than a phonecall.

Alexius, Felix: deceased.

Dorian bites his lip as he disconnects the call, staring straight ahead, and does not cry. Vivienne only silently adjusts their destination to take him home.

* * *

He sleeps in, the next day. Bull makes sure there's cereal in the house for whenever Dorian wants to wake up, monitors his vital signs from the next room over, and deals with repeated pings for status updates from the local command centre.

They don't, specifically, say it's because they think he's at risk of going rogue that they're being so heavy-handed, but he can interpret the signs well enough. They are wrong. He knows what it is, to nearly go that way. Handed himself in, after he lost Ashkaari, didn't he?

_Ashkaari? no record of--_  
_\--special project--_  
_you left it **on**?_

»error»

No, this time, if he adjusts his interpretation of orders, it is in order to fulfil his function. To do his job correctly. That's all he wants.

Is he not allowed to want a little thing like that?

He places food by the bedroom door at intervals, and some of it is even eaten. It is not until the evening that Dorian emerges, dressed elegantly in solid black, without the usual splashes of gold he'd use to break it up. “I won't, of course, be invited to the funeral.” he says, voice careful and even. “Let's go get a drink.”

Laws against texting and driving don't count when you don't need to hold a phone in your hand to send a heads-up to Krem to let him know to get out the good (well, slightly less bad) stuff. They take up a corner booth and Dorian pours three glasses, one for the empty seat, and talks about Felix Alexius.

How many things there are to people that cannot be contained in data. It surprises him, time and time again; as Tama did, as Ashkaari did, as Dorian's bitter smile does now. He talks until the words run out of him, but he does not weep.

The Iron Bull does not know what to do to fix this, so he listens, and drinks.

When the bar finally closes, Krem comes and sits for a short time, pours himself a glass and clinks it against Dorian's own. They drink silently. Krem does not comment on the still-full shot on the far side. He does not ask.

“Right.” Dorian declares, standing with only slight assistance from the table. “I have officially wallowed enough.”

“Home?” Bull guesses.

Dorian shakes his head. “Somewhere I can see the sun rise.”

The Iron Bull considers his surroundings, the Chargers still milling about arguing about who is crashing at whose place, Cadash passed out with her head in Sera's lap, and then considers the half-dozen Sten units arranged at a sensible distance around his current position, who aren't nearly at good as hiding their tracks as they should be. “A change in location sounds great.”

* * *

It's a pretty sort of park. At this time of the morning, it's also deserted. Dorian leans against a wall, facing out away from the city, and smiles, just a little.

Silently, Bull contacts a taxi firm, one he knows doesn't use any Qun technology, to arrange transportation. Dorian will need a way to get home, and he really doesn't think he should be driving right now.

It's not dramatic. He came here so it wouldn't be. He opens the space between them, slowly. Dorian is still looking out over the park, staring out to the sky as if it contains some secret to life and death. The black van draws up next to the kerb, slow and silent, lights off.

“Figured you'd know we were coming.” Gatt says, and he's not surprised. It's all protocol. “Picking the easy way?”

The side door opens. Dorian turns. “Bull!”

“It's okay.” He's run the calculation. He knows the odds.

Primary function: to ensure wellbeing of Dorian Pavus.

They're efficient. Naturally.

There was never any chance of Dorian reaching them in time.


	6. Chapter 6

He honestly doesn't notice. Between the booze, and the wallowing, and the fact that he just wants to see the sun rise.

That's what Felix did for him, once, on a night when everything had gone horribly wrong. Dragged him up in the early hours of the morning to the top of the university tower, technically off-limits to students, with a key he'd managed to acquire through some dastardly means or other, like smiling at people.

Dorian had been about to make some bitter and inappropriate comment about taking a flying leap, when Felix had pointed to the horizon. “Look, Dorian.”

Against the Minrathous skyline, a warm glow. Just visible, the hideous monstrosity his grandfather had built, great spire thrusting upwards. He'd made a great many jokes about the symbolism there. “You aced your astronomy exam without even studying, Felix. I am _sure_ you know that the sun actually rises _every day_.”

“Yep.” Felix had said, smiling like he'd made some great discovery.

“Archon's flaming bollocks, did you drag me all the way up here in order to make some terrible point about how _tomorrow is another day_? Honestly?”

“Pretty much.” Felix admitted, smile turning bashful, and the terrible earnestness of it all-- he hadn't known whether to be thankful or nauseous.

Nauseous had won out, granted, but that had been mostly because the progression of the night had involved a great many shots of a great variety of alcoholic substances.

Now, he stands looking out over some rather uninspired landscape gardening, vaguely aware Bull is keeping a sort of polite distance, and it's not at all the same. The city before his eyes has none of the grace or power of Minrathous. It inspires none of the same feelings in his chest.

Still, this time around, thankful wins out.

He barely registers the sound of the engine behind him. He doesn't know what makes him turn around to check, but suddenly Bull is not by the fountain but standing all the way back by the kerb.

He calls out.

“It's okay.” Bull says, a phrase that echoes in his mind. He doesn't resist when they pull him in.

There is no magic he can call on at this moment that wouldn't put Bull in danger, and his hesitation gives them time to speed away. No lights, no plates, no identification, no nothing.

What the fuck does he do now?

* * *

A moment Bull will not remember, for it never happened-- standing with Cadash, about to attempt magic that should either have him put into some sort of history book or that would kill them all. Indeed, even if he should have failed in some less fatal way, there would have been only swift death to follow, the enemies beating at the door.

Bull, turned to face them, had spared a moment to reassure him.

“It's okay,” he'd said. “Ashkaari is waiting.”

Then he had died. Does one call that death? Whatever your opinion is on the origin and construction of the Fade and the spirits that reside there, there is one certain thing: a machine has no soul.

And yet, he'd felt it. In that moment, some invisible thing had passed out of the world and been lost.

  
\- art by iambickilometer / [kilography.tumblr.com](http://kilography.tumblr.com/post/140758153174/ashkaari-is-waiting-for-me-there-are-no)

Now, as he ponders his current situation, he remembers that same moment. _It's okay_ , Bull had said. As if it didn't matter what happened to him. If Dorian was more important.

_Of course, that could just be his programming..._

It hurts to think of it either way.

He'd searched for _Ashkaari_ , of course, which apart from being another title of sorts for Koslun, is (among another things) a takeaway in Val Royeaux, the title of a Nevarran film about Qunari cultural attitudes to dragons, and also the stage name of an apparently quite well regarded porn actor.

He can't see how any of those would relate to Bull's last words, unless the Qun have been teaching their androids religion on the sly.

One more piece in the puzzle. If only he knew how to put them together.

Just as he's realised that he has no key on him to the car he's probably legally over the limit to drive anyway, a taxi pulls up. Pre-paid, the rather heavily bearded driver tells him. Somewhere in the middle of being kidnapped, Bull managed to find the time to make sure he got home safely.

He gets in. What else is there to do? He lets the driver ramble on about how bad business has been lately, and about the local sports teams, and he thinks.

No solutions come to mind.

* * *

Blank walls. They disabled his locator, which only tells him he's somewhere within approximately an hour's drive from the location they picked him up from. With cached map data, disregarding any location he already knows is Qun since it would be too obvious, making some basic presumptions about size and type of required location, access to transport and other facilities...

Still too many options. Also, why does it matter? He's unlikely to ever leave this place.

Tama is there. “What's the delay?” he asks.

“We need to ensure that in the process of you deciding to pick and choose what you report, there hasn't been a security leak that needs fixing.”

If he had blood, it would run cold. She means, if they decide he let something important slip to Krem, or Sera, or Dorian, they'll fix it with a fatal accident before the information spreads any further. He knows how that works. He arranged a few accidents-to-order himself, back in Seheron. “No leaks.”

“And how am I supposed to take the word of a machine I designed so it could lie to me?” Tama asks. It is a rhetorical question. She strokes his brow, above the damaged eye, gently. There is an echo of familiarity in the gesture.

One final inconsistency in the mess that is his memory. He thinks he might know now, what it is they've twisted his thoughts around to hide from him. “Learnt from the best, didn't I? Tell me, Tama: did Ashkaari really die in Seheron?”

“What a thing to dwell on in your last days of existence.” Tama replies, softly. A deliberate choice of phrasing, to not deny anything. Telling him without telling him. He nods, too small a movement for the cameras he knows are here to catch. Tama's fingers, still on his forehead, will catch it, though. “Now, you want your friends to be safe, yes? Let me in, so I can prove they know nothing, and this will all end.”

A warning. “I'm sorry, Tama. I can't do that.”

Warning: Control algorithms disabled. Unit may be operating beyond designed parameters. Initiating emergency shutdown.

Error: unable to initiate emergency shutdown.

Error: Unable to connect to Central Reporting. Full reset of communication unit initiated.

Error: Communication unit rest interrupt.

Warning: Reporting function disabled.

Warning: Remote shutdown function disabled.

Warning: Geofencing function disabled.

Warning messages disabled.

“We're making good progress.” Tama says, as if towards the cameras, the monitors he cannot see. “Task completion estimated in under thirty-six hours.”

* * *

When Dorian gets home, there's a single unstamped white envelope on his kitchen table. _Revocation of Assignment_ , it says, in stark black and white lettering, and inside, a letter informing him that due to urgent required maintenance, etcetera, terribly sorry for the inconvenience, contact the following numbers for a refund.

The contents of the letter are of little concern, really. It's the positioning of it that's the threat.

Interesting, that Bull is important enough to them to bother threatening Dorian over. Still, he has no idea what he's going to do about it. He has no idea where they might have taken Bull or how to find out.

He reaches for his phone. He has Cadash's number, and she's probably with Sera, and Sera will know how to contact Krem. They'll all hate him for waking them up from their alcohol-induced slumber, but Krem seems the most likely to know anything-- or at least, anything useful.

This plan is foiled by the fact that the front of his phone screen has gone dark, a single white cursor blinking. As he watches, letters appear.

Hello, Dorian.

Well, that's not creepy at all. The only thing he can seem to access is the keyboard function, so he might as well answer, though. _Who is this?_

The cursor blinks, three times. The screen goes blank and then a new set of words appear.

I am Ashkaari. We need to talk about Unit Hissrad.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One chapter more after this, I think.

I am Ashkaari. We need to talk about Unit Hissrad.

* * *

He can't breathe, for a moment. He'd be a fool to trust a faceless person who can apparently hack his phone, but that name-- how could anybody have known he even knew that name?

After his long pause, the screen blanks again.

My apologies. I believe you prefer to use the designation 'Bull'

Dorian scrambles for the keyboard. _Not arguing over nomenclature, just surprised_.

The words come quicker, this time.

They will destroy him. He will allow it. Do you want to save him?

_You're going to tell me you can help, I take it?_

I can help. Will you let me?

* * *

'Ashkaari' is very light on information about exactly who he is and how he knows Bull, but he does give a location for where Bull is supposedly located.

And then, frustratingly, insists that they wait before taking any action.

I need to prepare. You need to rest.

He's about to toss the phone aside in frustration (not to mention genuine fatigue) when another thought comes to mind.

_How did you even know who I was? Or that I'd want to help him?_

A very long pause.

You took him to see the dragons.

* * *

He doesn't sleep well, but he sleeps.

He wakes to a message from Krem, which reads: _you're a fucking weirdo, and you owe me one_ , and another from 'Rocky'-- his mind supplies a image of a rather drunk dwarf-- which says _Got a van that'll take that ton of junk, easy. The offer of a little boom still stands, if you need it_.

They were all very eager to help. He's always been better at making friends than me.

“Do you,” Dorian asks the phone, partially rhetorically, “plan to explain to me exactly what we're doing at any point, or am I to just stumble about blindly?”

The response is almost immediate.

Stumble, no. I am planning for you to just walk right in.

Well, that makes communication easier. Nice of Ashkaari to point out that he didn't need to type all his quips out by hand. “Fancy joining me, or are you also planning to continue just sending me cryptic messages from afar?”

I'm afraid I'm unable. We all have our limitations.

Something about the phrasing reminds him of Felix. He can't ask. A leap of faith, then. “Well, I'll grant this sounds suitably dramatic. Tell me what I need to do.”

* * *

It is an ordinary building, in an area of absolutely no note. Dorian parks the borrowed van in what Ashkaari claims will be an inconspicuous location nearby, although frankly the only inconspicuous location for it would be some sort of junk yard.

His phone buzzes regularly with update, and commentary.

Too much physical security would make them obvious. No need, when they believe their systems unbreakable.

It's amazing how smug letters on a screen can be, but when Dorian strolls, carefully keeping his breathing even, to a side door, it slides open as he reaches it.

Few staff, normally. Androids, and androids obey orders. There's only one person you need to worry about. Next left, down the stairs, second right. All doors will be open.

They are, and as Ashkaari guides him downwards he sees some of the mentioned androids. Guarding. Armed. He nearly has a heart attack the first time one comes at him down the corridor but it merely steps aside to let him pass, as if utterly unconcerned by his presence.

He's rather unique, you see, our Hissrad. The rest of them are nothing more than clever machines. 

Finally, a large door. There is a pause, here, and Ashkaari is unusually quiet for a time, until finally the doors slide open.

It is, he supposes, some sort of laboratory. Tangles of wires, and androids suspended in them. The one closest to him, a qunari woman, twitches occasionally. Her lips move silently. Across from her, a near-replica of Bull slowly clenches and unclenches a fist, no other movement visible. On the far side, something more or less human-shaped has been stripped back to bare wires.

Beyond them, a living, breathing Qunari. She turns to face him, slow and elegant. Old, but how old he'd be hard pressed to say. Her braids are silver, neat and even, precise. Everything about her is precise. “I am Tama. You are Dorian Pavus. Ashkaari sent you, yes? To try and find The Iron Bull.”

“You know him?”

For a moment, her gaze flicks away, and then returns to him. “Both of them, yes. I made The Iron Bull. Ashkaari was my son.”

Wait, wait. What? “ _Was?_ ”

“You know, you could walk away now, Dorian Pavus. He's only a machine.”

“You know he's _not_. Answer the question.”

Slowly she steps forward to him. The look she passes over him is rather reminiscent of one of many headmistresses of his ill-spent youth. Considered, and perhaps found wanting. “I will tell you, and then we will see if you will make a wiser choice.”

“I am afraid I am not particularly known for my wise choices, but tell me, all the same.”

“My son died in Seheron, three years before the Hissrad unit you're so fixated on was constructed.” She states it flatly, without emotion; something in it is an echo of Gereon Alexius, talking about his wife. “Oh, but I had so much data. I'd been following his development since infancy. So I remade him. Not physically, of course-- much too hard to hide the use of resources that way.”

Ashkaari, who didn't seem to exist beyond messages on a phone. _Limitations_ , indeed. “You made a computer program?”

A shake of the head. “I made a _mind_ , Dorian Pavus. An infant mind, ready to learn and grow. Hidden in a training program for our new Hissrad series.” She gestures to the androids that hang around the lab. “It makes little difference to neural development if the memories are real or virtual, and it allows for interactions that would never be permitted with an untested unit.”

He looks up at the replica of Bull. “They look like they're dreaming.”

Tama smiles. “Nothing so unfocused. The child program grows. The android brain learns alongside it. It was very successful. My masterpiece, the twenty-sixth Hissrad grew beyond my expectations. The program I named Ashkaari, on the other hand-- it grew too. Too fast. Too clever. Too close and yet too far from what was lost. A hateful thing.”

He thinks of Felix, in another place. In another time. Of things that are worse than death. “I suppose I can see that point of view.”

“I had told nobody of the true extent of my testing. So they used Hissrad for the purpose to which he was built. They sent him to war.”

There's only one thing that can mean. “To Seheron.”

“What other war is there? It was an opportunity for me. When Hissrad was fully disconnected from the training system, I deleted the Ashkaari program and sent Hissrad an update containing a slightly modified version of the true Ashkaari's death. So many were dying around him. One more report should have simply been integrated into his system. Ashkaari would be no more, and Hissrad's training would be complete.”

A screen to her side flickers into life.

It was an admirable attempt.

“Best laid plans, and all that?”

“My boy always did want to see the world.” she says, barely bothering to glance at the screen. “The last piece of Hissrad's training was always intended to be Ashkaari's death. To live is to grieve, Dorian Pavus. But Hissrad could not assimilate that data. The machine broke. The failure was mine, and now I will correct it. You cannot blame him, for he is only a machine. Do not imagine him to be anything more than he is.”

“He filled my kitchen with pink kitchen utensils.” Dorian retorts. “He sings along to children's programs about dragons. He tells jokes-- not even _good_ jokes, awful jokes that I cannot believe would ever be created by a deliberate act of design. You are talking about killing--”

She holds up a hand. “Not killing, if it is not life.”

“And if it is? If _he_ is.” Because he has to face up to it now. He is emotionally attached-- oh, Pavus, say it right in your head, at least. He is in love with The Iron Bull. With a dented heap of junk that he's starting to suspect has the capability to love him back. Even if he doesn't. Even if he never will. If there's even a chance, if there's even a glimmer of possibility-- he's done stupider things in his life, in pursuit of the mere possibility of love.

Another long, considering look. “Are you willing to spend the rest of your life being hunted, for the sake of a machine?”

He watches her face a while, before answering. He thinks, perhaps, he's starting to understand. How could you create someone like The Iron Bull and not love him, after all? “Are you hoping my answer is yes?”

It startles a laugh from her. “Clever. On your head be it, then. It's not as if I can stop you, can I?”

An accurate assessment, Tama, as always. Thank you for giving me the time to work. The door behind her, Dorian Pavus. Stairs beyond. Take him out of communication range. I will do what I can to delay pursuit.

She does not step out of his way.

She does not try to block his path.

One last door.


	8. Chapter 8

Hissrad, in the dark. Or perhaps the light. Hard to tell, with external inputs dormant. Strings cut, one by one. No external guidance. Set adrift in his own mind.

My primary function is. My primary function is?

_Hissrad_ , Ashkaari says, _if you could go anywhere in the world, where would you go?_

Insufficient constraints. The world is too big.

_If you could be anything in the world, what would you be?_

Insufficient constraints.

Honestly, Hissrad. It's a hypothetical.

Not real.

You choose now to start figuring that out?

“You're not _real_.” he croaks, and feels a hand close around one wrist in response. All his sensory systems suddenly light up as one.

“The last time I checked, I definitely was.” Dorian Pavus says.

* * *

He wasn't sure what he was hoping for, in terms of reaction, but a nearly-literally rib-breaking hug was _not_ it. “It generally helps if you don't _suffocate_ your rescuer.” he points out.

He also doesn't exactly know what he's planning to do now, only that just as he's starting to realise he hasn't got the rest of the plan, a door on the far side of the room opens. Bull swings himself off the table, heads towards it. “You got a vehicle?”

“Your friend Rocky supplied it, so something in the general genre of vehicle, yes. Parked nearby, if it hasn't be hauled away for scrap. Is this a good time to point out I don't know what I'm doing?”

“Get me somewhere with no signal.” Bull says, after a pause. “Or better yet, let me drive, and you go home and pretend you were never here.”

“What, and let you take all the credit for my courageous rescue efforts?” And let Bull, what, disappear into the wilds, never to be seen again, like some sort of metal-assed cowboy? He doesn't think so.

“You are going to attract the attention of the Qun. That's not a good thing.”

It would be sweet, if Dorian had ever found the attempts of other people to protect him from himself _sweet_. “To be honest, merely having earned the ire of Tevinter was getting a little boring. I thought I might expand my repertoire. Isn't it counterproductive to stand here trying to argue me out of my bad ideas when we could be getting away? Does anything in whatever databank of information you have on me suggest _that's_ going to work?”

A long pause, probably more than Bull requires to work out exactly how stubborn Dorian is when he wants to be. “Why?”

“You are someone--” Even now, the words are hard to say. Well, that statements stands as complete, as it is. “You are _someone_ , and you ought to be able to work the rest of it out, you big metal idiot. Do I need to draw you a diagram? Do you think I break into top secret laboratories for _fun_?”

Another long pause. “Well, actually--”

Oh, right. “Nevarra doesn't _count_ , and my point stands. Now, are you driving or am I?”

Another nearly rib-breaking hug. “Thank you.” Bull says. “And I'm driving, are you even licensed to drive in Ferelden?”

“I broke into a _top secret laboratory_ , it seemed like a minor point. Besides, the van was dented when I got it. Don't be so picky.”

“I'm _definitely_ driving.” Bull says, and Dorian makes a rude gesture at the great expanse of his retreating back. “And I'm picking the music.”

“We are not listening to children's songs while we're escaping!” he snarls, and hurries after.

The door closes behind them with a noise that, if Dorian thinks too hard about it in days to come, sort of sounds like a giggle.

* * *

Ironic, that you should call your creation **liar**. To live is to grieve, indeed.

“Amusing, that you should imagine you understand the motivations of your maker.”

Merely a problem of sufficient data. Would you like me to guess what you're thinking now?”

* * *

That information is classified.

“Give it up, Gatt. There's no reason for us to know anything about the recalibration process. Pick them up, drop them at the point, where they go from there, who knows? Who cares. Get some sleep already.”

That information is classified.

“In a _moment_.” he snarls, curled around the phone. There's got to be something, if he asks the question the right way. He just has to know that they're going to fix Hissrad, that they're not going to--

That information is classified.

That information is classified.

That information is. is. is.

He got away. He got away. He got away.

It lasts only a moment, and then the screen goes blank. Gatt stares at it for a moment, and then rolls over to try and get some sleep.

_stupid bloody metal liar_

* * *

They take back roads, away from civilisation. Luckily, they're in Ferelden and civilisation is somewhat thin on the ground in the first place. Finally, they come to a stop on the edge of the dragon sanctuary. Dorian pays cash for a key to one of the cabins up in the woods, picks up supplies for one.

Handy, that whole 'self-powering' malarky that Tevinter's been spending years trying to figure out. Dorian, on the other hand needs food, and heat-- both of which appear to be provided here by an actual wood-powered stove, like something about a museum.

Well, he thinks, looking at it, how hard could it be? He knows how to start a fire.

Mistakes may have been made, but in his defence those curtains were terrible, anyway.

“Out of range.” Bull confirms, when Dorian emerges from the cabin with his slightly sooty dinner. “We should be okay here.”

“Well,” Dorian says, “You do know the standard protocol for situations such as this, I hope?”

Bull nods. 

“Passionate kiss under the setting sun.” “Thank-the-maker-we're-alive sex.”

Their words tumble over each other, and for a moment Dorian is lost, and then he looks to the horizon. Well, fancy that, Bull has a point. It would be a shame to miss this picture-perfect light. “Your suggestion, then mine?”

There's no answer. At least, not in words.

_Where is it written, that machines can't love?_


End file.
